


Coming Home

by Pull



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 23:26:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19711657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pull/pseuds/Pull
Summary: He was sobbing, his hands was shaking, and Eugene was somehow there, sitting on the wheelchair in the fucking upper floor, wheeling himself back and forth as he stared directly at Vincent with his baby blues.'Goddammit Vincent, get yourself together.'He wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh because he had finally lose it because there was no way Eugene was there when a few days ago, Vincent had burnt the ashes out of him.Vincent dealt with his five states of grief, except that he never got around to the fifth one.





	Coming Home

Vincent came home to an empty house and empty wheelchair. He didn’t cry nor did he scream.

Part of him thought that he expected this from the moment he opened the card and found a lock of hair instead of a note. It was somehow fitting although painfully bitter. What did he expect for a note anyway, Eugene wasn’t good with words.

The wheelchair was right beside the closed incinerator. There was dust pooling on top of it. There was dust everywhere. On the floor, on the plastic that covered the lab equipment, on the table, on the books—every surface, everywhere. It was clear that the room hadn’t been inhibited for a long time. A year, maybe.

It was easy to piece the puzzle. He should have known.

Eugene said he had prepared Vincent with samples for two years. He said that he would go travelling. He said that he got the better end of the deal because Vincent lent him his dream. He said that he was proud of Vincent. He said that he was sober when he walked in front of that car.

He said that Jerome would be here when Vincent came back. Jerome, not _Eugene_. Jerome, who was Gattaca’s first class navigator with a perfect gene who had accomplished his dream of souring through the space and reaching the star, whose secret would forever remain as dozens of bottled samples of human residue being kept safely in a freezer until they ran out, leaving Vincent as Vincent alone. Without Eugene.

Vincent should have known. It was very obvious. Why didn’t he know?

He just stood there, in the middle of the room that is too dark, too quiet, too dusty, and too empty, it didn’t feel right. He stared at the incinerator, hoping that the lid would somehow open and a head poked outside, a familiar face with a devilish smirk and snide remarks ready on the tip of his tongue. He imagined Eugene was there, inside, alive, laughing his ass off as he celebrated his success of scaring Vincent out of his mind. He imagined that the reality wasn’t real, that it was a mere sick prank all along.

But the sick smell of charred remains was real.

A flicker of sliver through the slotted lid caught the light and reflected it back into his eyes.

He didn’t feel sad nor did he feel angry. He surprised himself by feeling so empty, a big gaping hole in the middle of his chest as if something more important than his overdue heart had been forcefully ripped free. Or maybe it wasn’t forced at all. Maybe he had been holding it all along and suddenly it was taken right out of his open palm.

For a man who had accomplished the impossible—his _dream_ —he sure felt incomplete.

He didn’t dare take a step toward the incinerator. How could he. He didn’t even try to call Eugene’s name, the silent was too deafening for it to be a sick prank. It was real, as real as the Titan Vincent had seen beneath those swirling thick smoke. Eugene was wrong. There was something there.

He took a step back, another one and another one until his sole hit the first step and he turned around, climbing up and away, ignoring the sick feeling that was burning in his gut. Eugene was ashes mixed with silver, Jerome was the bottled samples in the freezer, and Vincent—

—Vincent was all that left.

* * *

Exhaustion welcomed him like a mother embraced her child, warm, content, and felt like he was belong.

Reality yanked him back with a cold shudder.

Forgetfulness was a sweet pleasure. His body was on auto pilot as he went on his morning routine to prepare himself for work in Gattaca. Clipping his nails, combing his hair, and scrubbing off the dead cell on his skin. Everything felt blissfully normal. He even forgot for a second that he just came back from space.

It was short lived, though. The painful reality came crushing down on him as he walked downstairs, a bag of his own traces of DNA in one hand, intended to use the incinerator to burn them off. The empty wheelchair greeted him and he stopped.

There, the same position as yesterday. He froze and time seemed to freeze all along. The smell hit his nose so hard that breathing became a difficult feat. His heart thumped too loud in his chest. The plastic bag fell to the floor with a soft thud.

He was alone. Vincent was alone.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Maybe only for a few seconds, but he swore it felt like years.

First, came the numbness. Then, came anger. The next thing he knew, he was marching towards the incinerator.

He punched the button. The flame came alive. He kept punching it even though he knew it wouldn’t make the fire any bigger. He kept punching and punching while the fire kept burning and burning until there was nothing to burn left—not even the tiny flicker of silver.

His eyes were wet. His breath was raspy. His arms was trembling and his chest aching but he kept punching anyway, feeling the hot steel under his palm. Eugene was burning inside and he felt sick in his stomach. Still, he couldn’t stop.

This was what Eugene wanted. This was what that bastard wanted. He wanted to be perfect so badly but he couldn’t so Vincent had to do it for him. He had to burn that bastard down so perfect there was nothing left of him to mourn—nothing at all. Only the bottled sample in the freezer that Vincent would use everyday in his life. The remains of a dead man sticking to his skin and seeping into his vein.

Stupid Eugene. Stupid bastard. He just had to be an asshole, hadn’t he? A selfish asshole.

Vincent kicked the wheelchair away with such force that it flung to the wall and fell sideway, a dent formed on its steel. There was an odd sense of satisfaction in imagining that Eugene was there, trying to free his dead legs from the weight of his chair, glaring at Vincent from his vulnerable position on the floor with tons of insult forming at the tip of his tongue. Vincent would go there, picking him up not so gently with the scruff of his neck, letting his legs hung uselessly as he shouted right in front of his face that all of this was his fault. That he was a crippled, selfish bastard who only think of himself, that he was an asshole who couldn’t take a second place. That he deserved all of this.

Eugene deserved this. Or maybe it was Vincent who do. But never Jerome. Not the perfect Jerome with his useful legs and his position of first class navigator in Gattaca and his gold medal in swimming Olympiad.

But Jerome was both of them. Jerome was what could and never be for both Vincent and Eugene. So maybe— _maybe_ they didn’t deserve this.

Vincent slithered down on the floor, resting his back to the wall of the incinerator. The fire kept burning, bright and warm. He looked down to his hands, both trembling so badly. He clasped them together, willing the tremble to go away. It never did. He covered his face with his palm and cried.

He cried and cried until the fire died away and he was left all alone.

* * *

He didn’t come to work that day, nor the day after that. He locked himself in his bedroom, huddled under the protection of his blanket, thinking about what if and what could be. Where everything went wrong and what he could have done to stop it.

He spent hours there, pretending that the world had stopped. That the time had stopped. They didn’t. No, not just because of the death of one man. But his sure felt like it.

This was what he signed for, a chance to reach his dream. He had done it and still live to tell the tale. What comes next didn’t matter. He was still alive, still working in Gattaca, and no one suspect him yet. He was fine. He should be. What happened to the other person wasn’t his fault. He should feel nothing. After all, he only did it for himself when he signed that paper.

What happened to Eugene wasn’t his fault.

He killed himself. Vincent didn’t kill him. It was Eugene’s own fault.

But somehow, he felt guilty.

It was there, right inside his chest. Filling the big, empty hole the numbness had left behind, suffocating him from the inside out. His heartbeat felt like the final countdown of his life.

Here he was, a man with and overdue heart. Still living and breathing. While Eugene who could practically live forever had been reduced to ashes.

It felt wrong. Very wrong and real.

Maybe if he didn’t go Titan, Eugene would still be alive. But who was he kidding? He signed himself up to reach his dream, not to befriend a drunken cripple.

_I wasn’t drunk when I walk in front of that car. I stepped right out in front of it. I’ve never been more sober in my life._

Could he still be called a friend? It was so damn obvious what Eugene had told him that night. They never talk about it. Vincent didn’t even know whether Eugene remembered the event or not. They should have talked about it. Vincent should have known. If he did, maybe all of this wouldn’t happen. Maybe he could prevent Eugene’s suicide.

Maybe Eugene would still be alive.

Maybe.

_If at first you don’t succeed… try, try again._

“Stop trying, you moron,” he said aloud to the empty room. There wasn’t any reply. Of course there wasn’t, dead man couldn’t talk. Ashes couldn’t talk.

He didn’t remember how long he lied there, just staring emptily at the roof of his own room. But when he found himself drifted off, he dreamt about the sea. He dreamt about the sound of wave hitting the shore, his own breath rasping loudly as he took in a deep breath between each stroke, and the water hitting playfully on his cheeks. There was someone there swimming with him. Not behind nor in front of, but right beside him.

It wasn’t Anton. It was never Anton. It was Eugene.

And for a second there, he felt whole.

* * *

Irene came to visit him. She said he had been absent from work without a notice for three days. The new director tolerated him because of his great achievement but the man’s patient quickly ran thin. Vincent didn’t even realized he had lock himself up that long.

When he thought about it, he didn’t really care.

“We are worry about you,” she said. _Bullshit,_ he thought. No one care about him there, no one even realized he had been absent. The director did, but only because it was his job to make sure his employee do their work. Irene was the only one who cared about Vincent. Eugene did, but he wasn’t here anymore.

There was something in her eyes, emotions etched openly on her usually stoic face. Sadness, worry, pity, and others he couldn’t put a name on. Maybe it was surprise. Surprise as she took in her first view of the real Vincent Freeman through the crack of one fake bravado that was Jerome Morrow.

“You look bad,” she said.

 _You look like shit,_ Eugene said somewhere in his mind.

”I’m sorry,” he said to both of them.

He let her in. They sat in the living room on the upper floor. She had never been to the lower floor and Vincent didn’t think he would let her go there. It was Eugene’s place. Her business was with him, not with Eugene.

He tried not to wince as he sat himself on the same seat Eugene climbed onto when he pretended to be Vincent—to be the perfect first class navigator _Jerome Morrow._ Irene noticed—of course she did. But she wouldn’t understand, she would never did.

“What happened?” she asked softly, putting her perfect hand on top of his imperfect one—there was nothing on him that was perfect now, they were stored safely in the freezer downstairs. Vincent let the warm seeped through his skin for a moment before gently pushed her away.

“Jerome died,” he said. It wasn’t an answer, it was a declaration. There was a crack formed somewhere in him as he finally admitted to the painful reality. Saying it out loud making it seemed more real.

Everything became a blur then. He didn’t remember when he was breaking down but the next thing he knew, he was telling Irene everything. About what happened before and what happened after, about how Eugene died and how Vincent found him, about how the only thing that greeted him when he came home was an empty wheelchair.

He told Irene how he should have known. The sign was there and it was so damn obvious but he was too high up in his dream he was blinded by it. He told her about how everything was his fault, that if only he didn’t go to Titan, it wouldn’t end up this way. If only he realized it earlier, maybe—maybe Eugene would still be here, sitting with them, alive and breathing instead of being the bottled traces of DNA Vincent applied to himself everyday until they ran out. Maybe, _maybe_ —

He was sobbing, his hands was shaking, and Eugene was somehow there, sitting on the wheelchair in the fucking upper floor, wheeling himself back and forth as he stared directly at Vincent with his baby blues.

_Goddammit Vincent, get yourself together._

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh because he had finally lose it because there was no way Eugene was there when a few days ago, Vincent had burnt the ashes out of him. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time and he was sure Irene realized there was something terribly wrong because she was shoving him out of the door, into the brightness of the sun, away from the impassive blue eyes of Eugene.

“It isn’t your fault,” she said.

“There is no way you could have seen it coming,” she said.

“He doesn’t want to see you like this,” she said. At that point, he wanted to argue because maybe Eugene _did_ want to see him like this. But one look from her shut him up.

They drove for hours. For all he knew, it could be a few minutes but it sure felt like hours. Time felt so long to him nowadays.

Irene stopped by to grab them food because Vincent looked awfully thin. Said man himself didn’t actually remember the last time he had eaten something. Maybe it was in space, maybe it was in Gattaca, maybe it was in his own home, who knows.

She tried to fill the silence between them with small talks, something about the weather, about her project at work, about Gattaca, hell even about the new director who was an asshole. Anything that wasn’t related with Eugene. At first, Vincent just listened to her ramble while staring blankly outside the window, not saying something back, letting her voice drowned the rest of the word for a moment.

At some point, she stopped talking and he didn’t even realized it. The car screeched to a halt and they were at the hill. The sun was a warm yellowish orange on the horizon and the green scenery was very comforting, covering the buzzing city below. Vincent found himself standing under the shadow of a tall, big tree, looking up at the sky, feeling the wind tickling his cheeks. Irene tugged him down to sit and shoved a box of food in front of his face.

“Eat,” she said and he didn’t need to be told twice. His stomach growled softly and he finally realized just how hungry he was. He dug into his food with great enthusiasm while trying to act discreet about how hungry he actually felt. After all, this manner of eating was in no way a valid’s.

“Drop the act. You’re Vincent Freeman, not Jerome Morrow,” Irene said, catching him red handed in his fake act. “Besides, I still have another box for you. Whether you want to eat it right away or take it home, it’s up to you. You need it.”

Vincent nodded gratefully and gave her a small smile. “Thank you.”

She nodded back and they settled into silence once more. Vincent eating his food while Irene watching both the sky and the city below. The city was a low buzz in the background while the chirping of bird filling the silence around them. The sun wasn’t too hot and the breeze wasn’t too cold. It was peaceful.

And then, she broke the silence.

“I came to your house once, when you were away.”

Vincent didn’t say anything so she continued.

“The weight of your secret is too heavy. I just want to talk to someone about it. To relieve myself a little. I just—“ she cut herself and took a deep breath. “You’re not the first one who found him like that, you know.”

A pause. “I’m sorry,” Vincent said softly. Because what else could be said about it?

Irene shook his head, wiping a tear discreetly with her sleeve. “No, we _are_.”

There was a rocket launch somewhere in the distance. They watched it together for a moment before Irene pointed her finger at it.

“That is your dream,” she said as the rocket blasted off into the sky, disappeared above the cloud. “I’ve read some of the article about the valid who put themselves into the de-gene-erate program. Most of them are suicidal. Just because we were born with better gene, doesn’t mean that we don’t suffer of any weight. We do. It’s called perfection. No one is perfect but we are forced to be one.”

She turned to look at Vincent. Her voice was firm. “I may not know much about the real Jerome but I know that he wanted this even before you came into his life. He dies knowing that you can do better with his gene than him, knowing that he can at least change a man’s life. He wanted you to reach your dream and you did it. That is all you can do for him.”

Vincent was silent for a moment, then asked, “How do you know about this?”

Irene looked away. “I almost sign myself up for that program,” she smiled bitterly, unconsciously placing her hand on her chest, right above the heart. “If I were him, I want my partner to do the same thing like you do. To become someone greater than I’ll ever be. You make him proud.”

Vincent shook his head. “But he is dead,” he said, the guilt heavy on his chest. No matter what she tried to make him believe, the truth was real. He could have prevented it. “I could have prevented it.”

“Yes, you could. But he will make another attempt and you can’t stop him. We, valids, want to be perfect, Vincent. By giving you everything he has, including his own life, he is making you perfect.”

Vincent didn’t say anything after that. He wanted too but he couldn’t find the word for it. So he stayed silent, mulling over what Irene had said in his mind. Irene didn’t say anything too, letting him drifted off by his own thought.

He decided, if this is what perfection felt like, he didn’t want it.

* * *

When he got home, he went straight to Eugene’s cabinet.

He should feel guilty for stealing a dead man’s stash of vodka but the truth was, he didn’t.

He remembered secretly counting Eugene’s liquor collection and hiding a few of them. He knew the other man would probably buy more in his absence, but he didn’t feel comfortable leaving the other man alone with too many bottle of vodka. Well, he didn’t feel comfortable leaving Eugene alone with _any_ bottle of vodka, but expecting the man to last a year without alcohol was a bit too much.

Apparently, expecting him to stay alive for a year until Vincent comes home was also too much.

The number of vodka stayed the same, even the few that Vincent had hidden was untouched. There was an uneasy feeling growing in his gut at the realization that Eugene had burned himself alive without drinking any alcohol to numb his sense.

It must had been painful.

He shook his head, pushing the image of Eugene, burning and screaming, to the back of his mind. He brought as many bottles as he could fit in his arms and went outside, to the roof the building he had been living in since he met Eugene.

It wasn’t like he didn’t appreciate what Irene had done but tonight, he really needed to get drunk.

He spent himself drinking while watching the stars that night, sitting at the edge of the building without any railing to lean onto. It was easy to tip himself back and be done with it. The mere idea was very tempting.

“You’re not planning to kill yourself, are you?”

And of course, Eugene would be here.

The man was sitting on his usual wheelchair. Vincent wondered why did he still use it. He was a ghost. Surely, his legs could work just fine.

“I’m not you,” Vincent huffed as he took in another big gulp from the bottle.

Eugene looked offended. “That’s mine.”

“Well, you don’t drink it for a year.”

“Maybe I want to change my habit like you always want me to.”

Vincent raised his eyebrows. _You’re dead,_ he wanted to say. But he shook his head and changed his mind. “That means you don’t need this anymore.”

“Not being an alcoholic doesn’t mean that I don’t drink,” the ghost answered back, crossing his arms.

Vincent rolled his eyes, ignoring him. He stretched his legs and looked up to the night sky, tipping the bottle into his throat. He frowned as the liquid didn’t pour out. It was empty.

He nonchalantly threw it right behind him, letting the bottle fell three story below. The sound of a breaking glass could be heard softly in the background. Vincent reached for another one.

“Oh no no no, you’re not drinking any of that,” Eugene wheeled fast towards Vincent and tried to stop him by grabbing his hand. It went through like air.

There was a moment of silence where Eugene stared right at his own hand—going through Vincent like he was nothing—and Vincent stared right at him. Under the moonlight, he could clearly see the transparent feature of his late best friend. Those glassy blue eyes that seemed to shine even brighter were a little bit wide as the owned shifted his attention back to him.

“You are dead,” Vincent whispered softly, the skin where their hands met felt strangely cold.

Eugene reluctantly drew his hand back. “And you should have let me go. I’m not killing myself for you to turn out like me.”

“And what do you want me to be? The perfect Jerome? It’s all about perfection for you, isn’t it?” Vincent huffed out a laugh. “You’re dead, Eugene. You don’t have a say in this anymore. You can’t stop me,” as if to prove his point, he picked another bottle of vodka, opened it, and took a big gulp. And Eugene could do nothing but watch.

Eugene bit his lip. There was something akin to desperation in his voice. “What do you want from me? I have given you everything. I gave you my name, my identity, my gene, even my fucking existence so you can do what you please as the one and only Jerome Morrow. What _more_ do you want?”

Vincent didn’t hesitate when he answered, “You,” _alive and breathing, next to me_. “I want you.”

“Well you can’t always have what you want, can you?”

Vincent shook his head. He was drunk. He was tipsy. He was sitting at the edge of the building without anything to stop him from letting himself fall to the ground and Eugene was staring at him worriedly.

“Don’t do this.”

Vincent scoffed. He signed himself to the de-gene-erate program to reach his dream and he had done it. He doesn’t have any excuse anymore. His life expectancy wasn’t that long too, he was supposed to be dead by now. It was just a matter of time.

And like he said before, Eugene didn’t have a say in this.

“Tell me, Eugene. What were you thinking when you stuffed yourself into that incinerator?” He didn’t mean it as an accusation, it was a question. A full-of-curiosity question.

A pause. _You,_ was what Eugene wanted to say. “Nothing,” was what he really said.

Vincent gave him a crooked smile. The smile that was really Vincent’s, not Jerome’s. “Funny, I’m thinking about the same thing too.”

And it was the truth. He didn’t think of anything. Maybe he imagined a little about the feeling of Eugene’s hand actually touching his wrist. Maybe he fantasied that the ghost in front of him was real so Vincent could punch him right in the face. Maybe he dreamed that they could fly so he could bring Eugene to Titan to show him that there was indeed something there.

But aside from all of that, nothing.

He just let his body do the work. It was easy after all. He wondered why the moon was upside down. He wondered how did he knew that the moon was upside down. The air rushed to his face and it felt a lot like flying.

Vincent liked to think that Eugene threw himself right after him. Because the cold sensation that enveloped him felt like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> I planned for this to be a one shot. It somehow ends up as a two shot. Then, I got lazy so it stays as a one shot. 
> 
> I know this movie comes out like, 20 years ago and you probably watch this because your biology teacher forces you to but hell, this is a gem. 
> 
> Maybe I will continue writing this as a two shot. It'll take me around a week to several years, so. Yeah.


End file.
